The Disdainful Marquis (3 page)

“I have a sister—well, actually a half-sister and a brother-in-law—in Kendal, ma'am. He, my brother-in-law, does not want me to go, but my sister does approve—that is, of my desire for independence.” Lord, Catherine thought, I'm making a muddle of this.

“Can't blame your brother-in-law, he must feel like a fox in a hen house. Can't blame your sister neither for wanting a good-looking baggage like yourself out of harm's way.” The duchess chortled.

Catherine wondered whether she should hotly defend Arthur or Jane or herself, but the duchess was actually smiling benignly at her now, and she wanted the position so badly she let the comment pass.

“Tell me, my gel,” the duchess asked, unbending enough to sit, and motioning that Catherine do the same, “got any experience?”

“Here are my references, ma'am,” Catherine said, spreading out the papers. “From the vicar, and the schoolmaster, and the others from my home—”

“Not those,” the duchess cut her off. “I mean, any experience of life?”

“Well, yes, ma'am,” Catherine faltered, not knowing quite what the duchess was getting at.

“You'd travel with me,” the duchess went on. “I travel a good bit. I meet a lot of people, all kinds of people—you ain't a shy one, are you?”

“Not at all,” Catherine replied, for in truth, she was not a shy person.

“Not frightened of men, are you? Or prudish? I can't stand a prude.”

“Not at all,” Catherine replied, thinking she was more frightened by the duchess than by any man she had ever met.

“Didn't think you were with a saucy face like yours. So you've come to London to see the queen, eh? And hope to be my companion. Well, you're more in the line of what I'm looking for than any of those biddies out there. You have an air of real gentility. Related to anybody important?”

“My father was a younger son,” Catherine said, putting up her chin. “And we were related to the Earl of Dorset.”

“Then what are you doing out looking for a position as lady's companion?” the duchess cried out ringingly, looking angry and affronted for no reason Catherine could fathom.

“We never corresponded with the family much after my father's death,” Catherine admitted, “and not at all after my mother's remarriage, which they did not approve of.”

“Black sheep? Better and better.” The duchess smiled.

“What would your family think of you flying across the Continent with me, meeting all sorts of people?” she challenged.

“As I said,” Catherine went on, “there's only my sister and brother-in-law, and they want only what would make me happy.”

“So they're cutting line from you? Don't blame them. What I'm saying, with no more roundabout,” the duchess said, leaning over and looking keenly at Catherine, and cutting off her indignant reply, “is, are you free and footloose? Are you ready for a lark?”

“Yes,” Catherine said, wondering why a companion would find life a lark, but feeling that if any came along she'd be quite ready.

“Get up,” the duchess suddenly barked, and, startled, Catherine did so.

“Turn, no, turn that way. You are a good-looking gel in any light,” the duchess said impassively. “But I'll bet you've been told that by the gentlemen before.”

“No, of course not,” Catherine protested, totally at sea, and wondering if the duchess were in fact, a little deranged.

“Haw. You're a good little actress. Sit down,” the duchess said, “and I'll put the proposition to you. You can let down your hair now and be frank. Your job would be to travel with me and to accompany me on my rounds. And to make sure I'm comfortable. I have a lot of friends. A lot of gentlemen friends, and I'd expect you to make them comfortable too, in a different way. You get my meaning?”

Catherine didn't at first. The first meaning she thought of was clearly preposterous and she was ashamed of herself for even thinking it. But she certainly was conversable and tactful enough to chat up any old gentlemen the duchess entertained to put them at their ease. So she nodded, so many thoughts crossing her mind that she was momentarily speechless.

“Good.” The duchess sighed. “I thought I was right about you. My usual companion, Rose, the lazy slut, has gone off and left me. And Violet, who sometimes travels with me, has gone and got herself another position. So I'm left in the lurch and I'm off to Paris in a month and demned if I'll go alone or with any of those old crows out there. So, gel, you understand?”

“Paris?” breathed Catherine, unable to take in her good luck. Was she being offered the position, in Paris?

“But let us get it clear. I travel in a fast set. You are very young. Perhaps you haven't understood. Are you worried about what people will say of your reputation?”

Catherine had the giddy instant thought of a group of old gentlemen and ladies being pushed rapidly in their invalid chairs or gambling wildly in their nightcaps while their attendants and nurses stood waiting to take them home to bed.

“My reputation?” Catherine thought quickly, searching for a precise answer that would satisfy the duchess as to her maturity and independence and put an end to this odd interview and perhaps win her the position she so desperately wanted. “My reputation,” she said loftily, “is my own concern.”

Seeing the wide grin on the duchess's face, she hastily added, “That is to say, it is excellent. It is widely known.”

“All the better.” The duchess beamed. “Fine then, gel, you've got the position.”

Catherine was so dizzy with happiness that she could only sit and stare at the duchess, who was smiling at her in the most conspiratorial, friendly way possible.

* * *

In a study very similar to the one that Catherine and the duchess sat in, one, moreover, only three doors down the street, two gentlemen sat in front of a cozy fire and smiled at each other in a conspiratorial, friendly way.

“Sinjun,” cried the younger one, waving a brimful brandy snifter at his friend, “a toast to the luckiest of chaps. I swear you are. Did you see the eyes on that filly? Blue as a summer sky. And moving in here right under your nose. All I have on my street are retired army gentlemen, and Sir Howard with two of the ugliest daughters known to mankind. And you've got the dowager and her lovelies right on your doorstep.”

“I've also,” drawled the taller man, putting down the papers he held, “got all this work you've brought me. And if I've read it right, it means I have some traveling to do.”

“But not immediately, dear fellow. You've time to set things up. We don't expect you to hop off immediately. And in the meantime, what a lovely diversion you've got right here. ‘Is this the Duchess of Crewe's address?' she says. Why, that means she's practically under your roof already. You just have to nip down the street and collect her.”

“I don't,” the taller man said, stretching out his long legs, “traffic with the duchess's companions.”

“But in her case, you could make an exception, Sinjun. She's a stunner, and new on the town too.”

“If she's in the duchess's employ, I doubt it. At any rate, Cyril, I seldom pay for what should be free.”

“Oh, I didn't know you were purse pinched,” the younger man laughed. “That'll be news to La Starr. How did you acquire that new bracelet she was sporting last week, for nothing?”

“I don't pay cash on the line.” The taller man smiled. “Because I don't like to stand in line, and the dowager's doxies traffic in volume, as you know.”

“What a lost opportunity for you then,” Cyril mourned. “Still, a toast! To the fairest wenches in London, to the dowager's doxies.”

“I think not,” his companion demurred.

“Then one to the old lady herself: to the dirty dowager.”

“No,” his friend said gently.

“Then curse it, Sinjun, you propose a toast. I'm desperate for a sip of this '94.”

“Very well.” The taller man took his glass in hand and intoned, “A toast: to work.” And he handed the papers to his friend. Cyril groaned. “To work,” he sighed, and dashing down the drink, he bent over the papers.

Chapter II

The Dowager Duchess of Crewe sat back in her late husband's favorite chair and waved her butler away. She lifted the glass of port that he had brought her and raised it in a silent salute before she allowed herself a sip of it. And then, alone in the study, she leaned back in her chair and sat, eyes closed, smiling to herself. Even in repose she retained her air of dignity and power. Even while relaxing she maintained her rigidly imposing countenance. With her gleaming white hair pulled back to show her strong features, seated behind the massive gleaming desk, she presented the perfect picture of a woman of consequence, a rich stone in an exquisite setting. She was a fine figure of a woman. It had not always been so.

For all women, and men as well, there is one point in life when they are beautiful, truly beautiful. There are some rare fortunate few who retain beauty all through life. But for most, they must make do with that one moment of physical beauty. And no matter how ill favored, every person experiences that moment. Nature is kind in that fashion, but she is unpredictable.

Thus, when the midwife cries in delight, “It is a girl, and a perfect, beautiful girl!” there are times when that is strictly true. At that moment, never to be repeated, the baby is indeed one of the most beautiful infants ever seen. For others, their summit of physical perfection comes in the toddler years. Still others are graceful, beautiful children and visitors will often comment, “She is a beautiful child; she'll be a real heartbreaker when she's grown.” Alas, that is often not true. For that particular child the epitome of beauty may exist only in that one afternoon of childhood. Later the snub nose may lengthen, the plump jaw grow rather like a lantern, the bright hair dim, and the glowing promise never be realized. For her, the moment came and passed in early childhood.

Still others are the envy of all their acquaintances in the years of early youth. For one brief incandescent time, the girl is lovely. But it is only for that time, never to be repeated. Others do make beautiful brides and the assembled wedding guests may swear they have never seen a lovelier bride and not perjure themselves. Yet, let as little as a few weeks go by and the vision is gone. Some are beautiful in the months of impending maternity, some as young mothers have an unearthly radiance that rivals religious paintings, some reach a glowing peak of ripened beauty in their middle years. For all, if they but live long enough, the moment will surely come. But it did not come for the Duchess of Crewe for almost seventy long and barren years.

Born as a simple “Mary,” fifth child and second daughter of the Earl of Appleby, she was a thin and red-eyed infant. Raised in the shadow of three hearty, boisterous brothers and a jolly older sister, little Mary looked rather like a shadow as a child. She was thin and pale with mouse-hued hair, and where the Appleby nose sat well on her father and brothers' faces, it overshadowed all else on her lean countenance. Sister Belle had mother's impudent nose, and grew to be a buxom, dashing sort of girl. Mary remained thin and gray-faced, although she elongated considerably as she grew and soon towered over both her mother, elder sister, and one of her brothers.

Nature, having given an impeccable lineage, an earl's castle to live in, and an impressive dowry to lure suitors with, did not see fit to overendow her with intelligence, beauty, or personality. Hers was a lonely childhood, but she did not seek refuge in books, as they were too difficult to read, or fantasy, as it was too much trouble to invent, or friendships, as there were too few children up to her weight in status or fortune.

When she reached the age of twenty-four, her father was reminded that he still had one great hulking girl at home who had received no offers even though she had been dutifully togged out and brought to London each season. He was a forthright man and it was a simple matter to remedy. After a hard day's hunting with his old school friend, Algie, Duke of Crewe, it was discovered that Algie had a son who was ready to be shackled into matrimony. At twenty and seven, George was a very eligible parti. He was no vision to set a maiden's heart thumping, being rather squat and square. He had not done too well at school, and his conversation consisted solely of horses and hunting, but he had the right breeding, fortune, and when his father quit this world he would be a duke. At dinner that night, between the buttered crabs and the haunch of venison, the matter was settled to all concerned parties' satisfaction.

At the wedding, the bride was not beautiful. Impending maternity only made the prospective mother ungainly and uncomfortable, and when her first child was born, no unearthly radiance transformed the new mother's face. Nor did it for the second, third, or fourth child. After the fourth heir arrived, duty done to king and country, George, now Duke of Crewe, devoted his amatory attentions solely to his amiable mistress in town, to his own, and his wife's, great relief.

Mary, Duchess of Crewe, had led a long good life. But something was missing. Some small niggling worm in the apple troubled the Duchess of Crewe obliquely during all those long privileged years. Not being a clever or introspective female, she never examined the problem too closely. But it was there, and it grew as the years went on.